Von Igelfeld was pleased to discover that at the Feast he was placed just two seats away from Mr Matthew Gurewitsch, and was able to join in the conversation that the opera writer was having with Mr Max Wilkinson, who had been seated between them. Mr Wilkinson, although a mere mathematician, proved to have a lively interest in opera and a knowledge that matched this interest. He quizzed Matthew Gurewitsch on the forthcoming production of the Ring cycle, in miniature, at Glyndebourne, and Mr Gurewitsch expressed grave concern about miniaturisation of Wagner, a concern which von Igelfeld strongly endorsed.
‘You have to be careful,’ said Matthew Gurewitsch. ‘You reduce the Rhine to a birdbath, and is there room, realistically speaking, for the Rhine Maidens, if that happens?’
‘Exactly,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘And Valhalla too. What becomes of Valhalla?’
‘It could become a sort of dentist’s waiting room,’ said Matthew Gurewitsch. ‘No, you may laugh, but I have seen that happen. I saw a production once which made Valhalla just that. I shall spare the producer’s blushes by not telling you who he was. But can you imagine it?’
‘Why would the gods choose to live in a dentist’s waiting room?’ asked von Igelfeld.
There was a sudden silence at the table. This question had been asked during a lull in the conversation in other quarters, and it echoed loudly through the Great Hall. Even the undergraduates heard it, and paused, forks and spoons halfway to their mouths. Then, with no satisfactory answer forthcoming from the general company, the noisy hubbub of conversation resumed. Von Igelfeld noticed, however, that Dr C. A. D. Wood had shot a glance at Dr Hall, who had made a sign of some sort to her.
‘They wouldn’t,’ said Matthew Gurewitsch, looking up at the intricate hammer-beam ceiling. ‘It’s the desire for novel effect. But there should be limits.’ He paused, before adding: ‘There are other objections to miniaturisation. The size of some singers, for example.’
‘They cannot be made any smaller,’ observed Mr Wilkinson.
‘No,’ said Matthew Gurewitsch. ‘And there are always problems with size in opera. Mimi, for example, is rarely small and delicate. She is often sung by a lady who is very large and who, quite frankly, simply doesn’t look consumptive. But at least we can suspend disbelief in such cases – within the conventions. But we should not create new challenges to our disbelief.’
‘Absolutely not,’ said von Igelfeld.
The conversation continued in this pleasant vein. Matthew Gurewitsch alluded to the interferences with Trovatore, which he intended to expose in his lecture.
‘Satires of Trovatore merely scratch the surface,’ he said, ‘leaving its mythic core untouched.’
‘I would agree,’ said von Igelfeld.
Matthew Gurewitsch smiled. ‘Thank you. Il Trovatore is to opera nothing less than what Oedipus Rex is to spoken drama: the revelation of the soul of tragedy in its purest form. In both, ancient secrets unravel, devastating the innocent along with the guilty. But then, who is innocent?’
Von Igelfeld looked down the table towards Plank, who was sitting next to a woman who had been at dinner the previous evening, but to whom von Igelfeld had not been introduced. She was engaged in conversation with Plank, and had laid a hand briefly on his forearm, only to remove it almost immediately. Plank was smiling, and for a moment von Igelfeld was filled with a form of pure moral horror. How could he sit there, in full dissemblance, at the same table as the proposed victim of his plot? No Florentine painter could have captured the essence of Judas’s table manners more clearly than flesh and blood that evening portrayed them in the form of Dr Plank, or so von Igelfeld reflected.
Matthew Gurewitsch, unaware of the peril which faced him, continued. ‘In the tragic no-man’s land between reason and unreason, the great crime is to have been born, would you not agree?’
‘Yes,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘I would.’
‘At that, a man may go to the grave never having known who he is,’ continued Matthew Gurewitsch. ‘Which is almost – almost, but not quite – what happened to Oedipus.’
There was more to be said on this subject, and it was said that evening. There were toasts as well, one to the Master – proposed by the Senior Tutor, who modestly praised the wine, his choice, before glasses were raised – and one to the Memory of the Founder. The Master then rose to give a short address.
‘Dear guests of the College,’ he began, ‘dear Fellows, dear undergraduate members of this Foundation: William de Courcey was cruelly beheaded by those who could not understand that it is quite permissible for rational men to differ on important points of belief or doctrine. The world in which he lived had yet to develop those qualities of tolerance of difference of opinion which we take for granted, but which we must remind ourselves is of rather recent creation and is by no means assured of universal support. There are amongst us still those who would deny to others the right to hold a different understanding of the fundamental issues of our time. Thus, if we look about us, we see dogma still in conflict with rival dogma; we see people of one culture or belief still at odds with their human neighbours who are of a different culture or belief; and we see many who are prepared to act upon this difference to the extent of denying the humanity of those with whom they differ. They are prepared to kill them, and innocent others in the process, in order to strike at those whom they perceive to be their enemies, even if these so-called enemies are, like them, simple human beings, with families that love them, and with hopes and fears about their own individual futures.
‘How might William de Courcey, by some thought experiment visiting the world today, recognise those self-same conflicts and sorrows which marred his own world and made it such a dangerous and, ultimately for him, such a fatal place? He would, I suspect, say that much has remained the same; that even if we have put some of the agents of division and intolerance to flight, there is still much evidence of their work among us.
‘Here in this place of learning, let us remind ourselves of the possibility of combating, in whatever small way we can, those divisions that come between man and man, between woman and woman, so that we may recognise in each other that vulnerable humanity that informs our lives, and makes life so precious; so that each may find happiness in his or her life, and in the lives of others. For what else is there for us to hope for? What else, I ask you, what else?’
The Master sat down, and there was a complete silence. Nobody spoke, nor coughed, nor murmured, nor otherwise disturbed the quiet which had fallen upon the room. At the end of the Hall, the portrait of William de Courcey was illuminated by the light of the many candles which had been placed upon the tables. His expression, fixed in oils, was a calm one, and his gaze went out, out beyond the High Table, and into that darkness that was both real, and metaphorical.
After a few minutes of silence, the Master rose to his feet, to lead the procession out of the Hall. Von Igelfeld noticed that there had been tears in his eyes, but that he had now wiped them away. They processed, still in silence, although now there was the sound of the scraping of chair legs on stone as the undergraduates rose to their feet to mark the departure of the High Table party. They too had been moved by the Master’s words, and there were hearts there that had changed, and would never be the same again. In the Senior Common Room, the Fellows moved to their accustomed seats, around the flickering of the great log fire which de Courcey’s will had stipulated should always be provided ‘to warm the hearts of the Fellows and the poor scholars of the Foundation’. The poor scholars were excluded, of course, but the other part of the injunction had been honoured.
Von Igelfeld found himself seated next to Dr C. A. D. Wood, who had Dr Hall at her other side. Plank was placed between Matthew Gurewitsch and the Senior Tutor.
Sipping at his coffee, von Igelfeld glanced at Dr C. A. D. Wood. She had no coffee cup in her hand, and was staring down at the floor, as if trying to read some message in the carpet. After a moment or two, she turned to Dr Hall, who had been staring miserably at the ce
iling.
‘I cannot proceed,’ said Dr C. A. D. Wood suddenly, turning to von Igelfeld as she spoke. ‘After those words of the Master’s, I cannot continue with our plan. I am grievously sorry, Professor von Igelfeld. I misled you this afternoon. What I said about Plank was not true. There was no plan to cancel Mr Gurewitsch’s lecture. He would never have done that. He is a good man, and I have been seduced, yes seduced, by my personal ambition, into misrepresenting his intentions. I can only ask your forgiveness.’
Von Igelfeld listened intently to this confession. He, too, had been greatly affected by the Master’s address, but it had never occurred to him that Dr C. A. D. Wood and Dr Hall would have been the centre of such a perfidious plot.
Dr Hall now spoke, turning to von Igelfeld and fixing him with a mournful stare. ‘What she says is correct,’ he said. ‘We have behaved very badly. Along with others, who I hope are feeling just as bad as we are. I am only sorry that it has taken a Road to Damascus to reveal to us just how wicked we have been.’
Von Igelfeld reached forward and placed his coffee cup on the table before him. ‘And I have behaved badly too,’ he said. ‘I too have been obliged to consider my own actions.’
‘Oh?’ said Dr C. A. D. Wood. ‘What did you do? Was it something to do with Plank?’
‘No,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘But it was to do with Mr Gurewitsch.’ He paused, plucking up his courage. ‘I told him that there was no bathroom on our stair. I told him that he would have to cross the Court. And that was all because I didn’t want another person sharing the bathroom with Professor Waterfield and myself. I did not actually lie, but I as good as lied.’
Dr Hall shook his head. ‘That’s the problem with these old buildings,’ he said. ‘There just aren’t enough bathrooms.’
‘Well, that may be so,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘But it doesn’t excuse my action. I shall have to tell him immediately after coffee.’
‘And we shall tell the others that there will be no emergency meeting called tomorrow,’ said Dr C. A. D. Wood. ‘And I shall say something decent to Plank.’
‘Absolutely,’ said Dr Hall. ‘I propose to go straight over to him, right now, and tell him that I think that he’s doing a very good job as Chairman of the Council.’
‘That will please him,’ said Dr C. A. D. Wood. ‘Nobody’s ever said anything like that to him before. Poor Haughland (voce, Plank).’
At the end of coffee, as the Fellows broke up for the evening, von Igelfeld made his way over to join Matthew Gurewitsch, who was examining one of the College portraits, a picture of a former Master, who had been beheaded under Cromwell.
‘Mr Gurewitsch,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘I owe you an apology. I omitted to tell you that there was a bathroom at the top of the stairs and that you could use it.’
It was not an easy confession for von Igelfeld to make, but at least it was quick in the making.
‘Oh that,’ said Matthew Gurewitsch. ‘Yes, don’t worry. I found it. I’ve been using it all along. Do you use it as well?’ he paused. ‘In fact, I must confess I’ve been feeling rather guilty about it. I wondered if I should be telling others about it.’
Von Igelfeld laughed. ‘That makes it easier for me,’ he said.
They walked across the Court together. The atmosphere in the College seemed lighter now, as if a cloud of some sort had been dispelled.
‘You know,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘Walking in these marvellous surroundings puts one in mind of opera, does it not? This setting. These ancient buildings.’
‘It certainly does,’ said Matthew Gurewitsch. ‘Perhaps I shall write a libretto about a Cambridge college. In fact, I seem quite inspired. The ideas are coming to me already.’
‘Would it be possible for me to be in it?’ asked von Igelfeld. ‘I would not want a large role, but if it were just possible for . . . ’
‘Of course,’ said Mathew Gurewitsch. ‘And it will be a fine role too. Positively heroic.’
Von Igelfeld said nothing. The Master had been right; the world was a distressing place, but there were places of light within it, not tiny particles of light like the quarks and bosons which the physicists chased after, but great bursts of light, like healing suns.
zwei
AT THE VILLA OF REDUCED CIRCUMSTANCES
ON HIS RETURN FROM SABBATICAL in Cambridge – a period of considerable achievement in his scholarly career – Professor Dr Moritz-Maria von Igelfeld, author of that most exhaustive work of Romance philology, Portuguese Irregular Verbs, lost no time in resuming his duties at the Institute. Although von Igelfeld was delighted to be back in Germany, he had enjoyed Cambridge, especially after the Master’s address had so effectively stopped all that divisive plotting. Mr Matthew Gurewitsch’s lecture had been well-attended and well-received, with several Fellows describing it as the most brilliant exposition of an issue which they had heard for many years. Von Igelfeld had taken copious notes, and had later raised several points about the interpretation of Il Trovatore with Mr Matthew Gurewitsch, all of which had been satisfactorily answered. In the weeks that followed, he had struck up a number of close friendships, not only with those repentant schemers, Dr C. A. D. Wood and Dr Gervaise Hall, but also with their intended victim, Dr Plank.
Plank revealed himself to be both an agreeable man and a conscientious and competent Chairman of the College Committee. He invited von Igelfeld to tea in his rooms on several occasions, and even took him back to his house to meet his wife, the well-known potter, Hermione Plank-Harwood. Professor Waterfield, too, proved to be a generous host, taking von Igelfeld for lunch at his London club, the Savile. Von Igelfeld was intrigued by this club, which appeared to have no purpose, as far as he could ascertain, and which could not be explained in any satisfactory terms by Professor Waterfield. Von Igelfeld asked him why he belonged, and Professor Waterfield simply shrugged. ‘Because it’s there, my dear chap,’ he said lightly. ‘Same reason Mallory wanted to climb Everest. Because it was there. And I wonder whether Sherpa Tenzing climbed it because Hillary was there?’
‘I find that impossible to answer,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘And the initial proposition is in every sense unconvincing. You don’t climb mountains just because they’re there.’
‘I agree with you,’ said Professor Waterfield. ‘But that’s exactly what Mallory said about Everest. Ipse dixit. I would never climb a mountain myself, whether or not it was there. Although I might be more tempted to climb one that wasn’t there, if you see what I mean.’
‘No,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘I do not. And I cannot imagine why one would join a club just because it is there. The club must do something.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Professor Waterfield. ‘And actually, old chap, would you mind terribly if we brought this line of conversation to a close? It’s just that one of the rules of this place’ – this was at lunch in the Savile – ‘one of the rules is that you aren’t allowed to discuss the club’s raison d’être in the club itself. Curious rule, but there we are. Perhaps it’s because it unsettles the members. London, by the way, is full of clubs that have no real reason to exist. Some more so than others. I’ve never been able to work out why Brooks’s exists, quite frankly, and then there’s the Athenaeum, which is for bishops and intellectual poseurs. I suppose they have to go somewhere. But that’s hardly a reason to establish a club for them.’
Von Igelfeld was silent. There were aspects of England that he would never understand, and this, it seemed, was one of them. Perhaps the key was to consider it a tribal society and to understand it as would an anthropologist. In fact, the more he thought of that, the more apt the explanation became, and later, when he put it to Professor Waterfield himself, the Professor nodded enthusiastically.
‘But of course that’s the right way to look at this country,’ he said. ‘They should send anthropologists from New Guinea to live amongst us. They could then write their Harvard PhDs on places like this club, and the university too.’ He paused. ‘Could the same not be said of Germany?’ r />
‘Of course not,’ said von Igelfeld sharply; the idea was absurd. Germany was an entirely rational society, and the suggestion that it might be analysed in anthropological terms was hardly a serious one. It was typical of Professor Waterfield’s conversation, he thought, which in his view was a loosely-held-together stream of non sequiturs and unsupported assertions. That’s what came of being Anglo-Saxon, he assumed, instead of being German; the Weltanschauung of the former was, quite simply, wrong.
He arrived back in Germany on a Sunday afternoon, which gave him time to attend to one or two matters before getting back to work on the Monday morning. There was a long letter from Zimmermann which had to be answered – that was a priority – and von Igelfeld wrote a full reply that Sunday evening. Zimmermann was anxious to hear about Cambridge, and to get news of some of the friends whom he had made during his year there. How was Haughland (Plank)? Had Dr Mauve finished writing his riposte to the review article which Nenée-Franck had so unwisely published in the Revue Comparative de Grammaire Contemporaine the year before last? He should not leave it too late, said Zimmermann: false interpretations can enter the canon if not dealt with in a timely fashion and then can prove almost impossible to uproot. And what about the Hughes-Davitt Bequest? What were von Igelfeld’s preliminary conclusions, and would they appear reasonably soon in the Zeitschrift? Von Igelfeld went through each of these queries carefully, and was able to give Zimmermann much of the information he sought.